WitchWraith
DEFENDERS OF SHANNARA
The HighDruid’s Blade
The Darkling Child
The Sorcerer’s Daughter
THE FALL OF SHANNARA
The BlackElfstone
The Skaar Invasion
MAGIC KINGDOM OF LANDOVER
Magic Kingdom for Sale Sold!
The BlackUnicorn
Wizardat Large
The Tangle Box Witches’Brew A Princess of Landover
WORD & VOID
Running withthe Demon A Knight of the Word AngelFire East
OTHER WORKS
Hook
Star Wars: Episode I: The Phantom Menace Sometimes the Magic Works: Lessons from a Writing Life
SEATTLE, WA
GRIM OAK PRESS
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Terry Brooks. All rights reserved.
Cover design by Shawn King. Interior illustrations by Marc Simonetti. Book design and composition by Rachelle Longé McGhee. Proofread by Michelle Hope Anderson.
Trade Edition ISBN: 978-1-944145-20-0
Limited Edition ISBN: 978-1-944145-19-4
Lettered Edition ISBN: 978-1-944145-18-7
E-book ISBN: 978-1-944145-21-7
First Edition, October 2018 246897531
Grim Oak Press Battle Ground, WA 98604 www.grimoakpress.com
For Judine
Table of Contents
Cover Street Freaks
Also by Terry Brooks
Copyright
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
About the Author
W
hen the soft beep of his vidview sounds and the chip implanted in his retina flashes red in the corner of his eye, Ash Collins thinks nothing of it. It has been two years since his father’s warning, and nothing has come of it. There is no reason for this message to be anything special. Ash never took any of that BioGen stuff seriously in the first place. He still doesn’t.
So he almost ignores the vidview. He is right in the middle of taking notes on robo-prof Faulkner’s lecture about matter transmission. But he is bored by the lesson, so he uses the vidview as an excuse to tune out. He touches the tiny node imbedded behind his left ear to activate it, and the message projects onto an air screen.
And there is his father’s face, darkly intense and clearly frantic, his words stumbling over each other as he speaks.
ASH! GET OUT NOW! GO INTO THE RED ZONE. GO TO STREET FREAKS. DON’TWAIT. . .
The connection terminates. His father’s face disappears, wiped off the screen. He is gone, taking the rest of whatever he was going to say with him.
Ash thinks his father was messaging from BioGen, but he can’t be certain. He was in a stairwell, moving quickly, climbing if Ash isn’t mistaken, maybe fleeing.
For a moment, Ash doesn’t move. He replays the message sees his father’s face and hears his voice anew. The strain of whatever threatens him is reflected in both. Which is not at all like his father, who is always so completely in control. Brantlin Collins, cool nerd guy. He reveals almost nothing of how he feels. He never seems
stressed out. A cocked eyebrow is as much as Ash has ever seen in the way of a reaction.
Except when his wife died. Ash saw him cry then. For one day, his father was a real person.
So what is going on here? Is it happening? Actually happening? The warning his father gave him two years ago? The instructions? His father’s fears realized?
His father must think so. What he told Ash that night was so out of character it was laughable. He said he was in danger. He said he had crossed a line he shouldn’t have, but he didn’t regret it. He warned Ash that if the truth of what he was doing were discovered, they would come for him. When that happened, he would get word to Ash and tell him what to do. Because they would be coming for Ash too.
Faulkner is still talking, unaware that Ash has stopped listening. The bot is a rental, a tutor his father secured for him about the same time he gave Ash the warning, claiming he was far enough advanced in his studies that he needed private instruction. But what if that wasn’t the real reason? What if it was something else altogether? Maybe his father didn’t bring him home from boarding school to improve his education but to better protect him by keeping him?
Ash blinks. He is suddenly afraid. What if his father wasn’t crazy? What if he was right about being in danger? If so, Ash can’t waste time questioning what he was told. He can’t ponder the pros and cons. Either he does what his father told him to do or he ignores the warning.
“Excuse me, Faulkner,” Ash says, getting to his feet.
Faulkner is like family. He lives with them. He frequently sits at the dinner table, even though he doesn’t require food. Ash knows Faulkner is just a bot, but his intelligence quotient is much higher than his own. His father once said that if Faulkner had a sense of humor he would be human.
Ash slips past him without slowing, saying something about being right back.
Ihave toget out ofhere, he thinks, the decision made. But where should he go? He is supposed to go to Street Freaks, which is in the Red Zone. But his father has told him for years to never, ever go into the Red Zone.
He passes Willis4, the robo-cook, wheeling down the hall with a collection of dishes and linen piled in his arms.
Master Ashton, the machine intones.
Always calls Ash that. Master Ashton, not Ash. Can’t seem to program it out of him.
“Willis4.” Ash tries to sound nonchalant.
Do you need anything to eat?
“Not just now.”
There are three of them working the suite—Willis4, Faulkner, and the robo-maid Beattie. Willis4 and Beattie are not rentals. Both came with the penthouse when his father took the lease on it after returning to L.A. following Ash’s mother’s death. Ash was bounced around a lot during his early years because his parents traveled extensively and were reluctant to leave him behind. At least, his mother was reluctant. Not so sure about his dad. Probably didn’t matter that much to him. His father has never admitted it and probably never will. But he once said the research was all that really mattered to him.
He’s aware that he’s moving without a destination in mind. Just moving to be moving. But he has to get out, doesn’t he?
Think, damn it!Choose a door, a window, butget out!
No, wait! The backpack!
It has gathered dust in a laundry room cupboard for all this time, waiting for the day it would be needed. Which was the day Ash had thought would never come. But he had packed it anyway. Still not sure why. Maybe because his father had suggested it, and it hadn’t cost him anything to do so. Maybe because he was thorough about things, and at some point had decided that being prepared couldn’t hurt. His K-Bar knife, some clothing, some packets of prefab food . . . what else? Is his ProLx in there? Did he remember to pack any? He hadn’t paid close enough attention to remember. And he can’t leave without his medication . . .
He reverses course, rushing now, heading back down the hallway and up the stairs. He can’t do anything without his medication. He has to retrieve his ProLx, then go back down to the laundry for his backpack and
The front door explodes in a shower of wood and metal shards that take out half the entry wall. The sound is deafening, a concussive force that blows through the entire penthouse. Smoke and dust boil out of the hole left behind, and figures in crimson jumpsuits rush through.
He freezes. Hazmats. Scrubbers. Cleaners. Scorched-earth guys.
The Hazmats are carrying weapons. Big, heavy automatics and lasers. Sparz 200s and Gronklins. From high on the staircase, Ash recognizes them at once. They blow up Faulkner in mid-sentence. Metal parts and wires erupt in a shower of sparks, springing out of the bot’s midsection as he crumples to the floor. They charge after Willis4 and Beattie without slowing, down the hall toward the back of the house. Ash doesn’t wait to see how that turns out. He bounds up the remaining stairs, gaining the next floor in a rush, tearing down the hallway toward the back rooms. He is screaming inside, terrified.
How couldthis be happening?
Weapons discharge below in electric spizzes and hollow crumps. Willis4 and Beattie are gone too. Ash grits his teeth in anger and frustration and pain. Why are they doing this? The bots never hurt anyone. They don’t even know what is going on! What is the point of destroying them?
What do they haveplannedfor me?
Whatever it is, he doesn’t want to find out.
Even though he has had two years to think about this, he hasn’t done so more than a couple of times. How could he? It’s so bizarre. As such, he is unprepared. Choices flash through his mind. Using an elevator to get to the lobby is not a safe option. He can’t jump out a window; his home is at the top of the building, eighty-two stories up. He could chance using the exterior delivery door. But there is every likelihood the Hazmats will have someone out there on the loading platform, waiting for him.
He rushes into his bathroom, grabs what remains of his supply of ProLx, and rushes back out again.
He hears footsteps pounding up the stairs. Hazmats, coming to findme. Hazmats, between me andthe backpack.
The laundry chute is just down the hallway. Without stopping to think about it, he runs to it, flings open the door, and dives in headfirst. He is slender, so he goes through the opening easily. Because it operates on spring-loaded hinges, the chute door closes behind him. Maybe they won’t know where he’s gone, he thinks, as he tumbles away. The drop is twenty feet, so maybe he’ll just break his neck and his problems will be over.
But he lands in a pile of dirty linen instead, shaken and a bit banged up but otherwise with everything still working. Now he is seriously panicked. He scrambles from the bin, finds the backpack, and fumbles it open. It contains clothes and food but no ProLx. Good thing he grabbed what he found upstairs. He digs deeper and at the bottom finds the vintage K-Bar army knife he bought as a souvenir when they lived in Africa many years back. Not much of a weapon against a Gronklin, but at least something.
He cracks the door and peers out. Smoke roils down the hallway. His heart is pounding like a jackhammer and his composure is out the window. What remains of Willis4 lies in a heap several yards away. More explosions sound. He searches the smoke for phantom movement, hearing most of the noise coming now from the floor just above.
Justget out, you idiot!
He closes the door to the laundry, locks it, and hurries over to the window that opens onto the service ledge used by the maintenance staff. The ledge is two feet wide and ten feet long just big enough to stand on. But it is almost a thousand feet to the street below if he falls. Or a little bit closer if he should happen to land on one of the many public transport vehicles moving through the elevated traffic lanes.
He finds himself wishing he had thought this through earlier, but it is too late for regrets.
He opens the window and steps outside.
It is three floors down to the hive level where his father keeps a jumper. Jumpers are supposed to be reliable; everyone says so. You just have to be careful to harness yourself in nice and tight and stay in the traffic lanes. Ash has flown a jumper two or three times and survived to tell the tale. But he has heard plenty of stories about people who didn’t.
Not that it matters if he falls while trying to get down there and breaks every bone in his body. But getting down there is exactly what he has to do.
He tamps down his instinctive fear of being outside in the open air of L.A., reputed to be among the five worst in all of the United Territories. You can breathe the air in some places. He’s done it in other countries. But not here. Not in L.A. If you venture outside the sanctity of the buildings with their connecting corridors and tubes and filtered air without wearing a mask, you better hope your immune system is sufficiently bolstered by all the vaccines they inject into you growing up.
The prospect of what he faces terrifies him. But what is he supposed to do? He can’t go back inside. He has to get out of there.
The rungs cut into the side of the vertical cornice are there to accommodate maintenance workers. They are supposed to be used in conjunction with safety lines. They are not intended for climbing up and down untethered. Anyone doing so could only be a fool.
Ash hesitates. The Hazmats will be inside the laundry in moments. He edges his way over to the cornice and steps onto the narrow rungs, not stopping to think further. He descends quickly and does not look down. The rungs hold his weight; he does not fall. Once at the hive level, he works his way over to the platform fronting unit 82C, punches in the locking code on the exterior pad, and when the door swings up, he slips inside. By now, he just wants to get this over with. Maybe using the jumper won’t be as bad as he thinks. Maybe he can escape without anyone even seeing him.
Maybe pigs can fly.
He is almost to the jumper when the lock on the interior door to the storage garage disengages. A second later, it nudges open and an arm reaches through.
With no time to ponder choices, Ash does the first thing that comes to mind. He rushes the door, slamming into it. The door is constructed of a weather-resistant composite metal that seals the unit against the outside atmosphere. Its programmed function, if pressed sufficiently hard from inside the hive, is to close. So when Ash throws himself against it, that’s what it does. Forcibly. The Hazmat tries to push ahead anyway, his arm struggling to find the release. But the door’s mechanics are much stronger than he is; it keeps closing, drawing in on itself, the pumps and sealing devices grinding away.
Ash realizes suddenly that the man is not going to quit.
“Pull your arm out!” he yells in spite of himself.
But the Hazmat has waited too long. His arm is trapped now. He continues to struggle, but it is futile. The door closes on his arm, severing it.
Ash looks away, horrified, waiting for the screams. But there are none. The severed arm rolls past him on the floor, and he sees pieces of machinery and wiring hanging out one end.
It’s a bot!
He loses it momentarily, laughing and shouting in a mix of relief and anger. He’d never thought that maybe the Hazmat wasn’t a man! He’d fought to save a man, and it was only a bot!
Then he catches himself. Only a bot. Like Faulkner. Like Willis4 andBeattie.
He brushes aside the surge of relief that floods through him. No time for that. Quickly, he leaps into the jumper an efficient little two-man blue-on-blue Neo—slamming the hatch shut. He does it without thinking, reacting instinctively, scared to death. No time for donning protective gear; no time for caution. He needs to get out of there.
For one terrible moment he can’t remember what to do. His mind screams: Do something! Anything! He finds the starter that ignites the solar-powered engine and listens to the whine of its drive as it engages. A surge of relief rushes through him. Seizing the handles to the lifters, he hauls back. The jumper lurches forward and drops away from the platform.
And immediately goes into a spin that threatens to turn into something worse.
He gasps in dismay, fighting to bring the Neo back up. A few frantic seconds of working the controls steadies the little craft, and he maneuvers into the designated traffic lane. He points for a nearby cluster of residential sky towers, intent on gaining one of their public landing platforms and getting down to the street and into foot traffic as fast as possible. Jumpers have limited range and are not intended for anything but short hops, so he doesn’t bother struggling with the thought of trying to pilot this one all the way to the Red Zone. Another mode of transportation will be necessary.
Which is not an inviting prospect. He can take a robo-taxi or a substem, neither of which requires anything beyond showing up and boarding. But they are both public transport, which means being out in the open air again. And they aren’t always there when you need them. So, although it makes him nervous even to think about it, Ash might spend the credits needed to use a matter transporter. But how desperate is that? He doesn’t trust jumpers, but he really doesn’t trust transmats; there are stories about people who transport to one place and arrive somewhere else—sometimes with their limbs missing or body pieces rearranged in hideous fashion.
Still, a transmat will slow anyone looking to find him. Transmats are untraceable. Tracers are embedded in all jumpers and robotaxis, but there is no way to track someone using a transmat without contacting a coding station and tracking the source.
He is only marginally less panicked than earlier. He no longer doubts that his father was right to warn him. But it would help if he knew exactly who was chasing him. Hazmats, sure. But someone had to send them. Was it BioGen? There is too much he doesn’t know and no time to sort it out now. He pilots the jumper toward the public landing platform that services the residential sky towers he has been pointing toward. Fighting to hold the little craft steady, he sets her down on one of the empty landing pads, coasts toward the storage bays until an air lock opens, continues inside, and waits for the air lock to close again. Disengaging the drive, he grabs his backpack, releases the hatch lock, and steps out.
He half expects to find Hazmats waiting to intercept him. But except for the attendant, the bay is empty. He hurries toward the elevators that will take him down to transportation services. At least the worst is behind him.
Except it isn’t. It is waiting up ahead.
Ash Collins does not think of himself as anything but ordinary. Sure, he’s gotten into trouble a few times. Well, more than a few. Got thrown out of boarding school once when he was eight. Got dressed down by a warden when he went out tracking lions in Africa inside the fences of a game reserve on a dare. Got in a few fights. Skated a whole bunch of other times because his parents never found out what he was up to or they might have grounded him for life.
But none of this was real trouble. He didn’t go to jail or anything. He doesn’t smoke or drink. He doesn’t do drugs—excluding his daily dosage of ProLx, and that is on his father anyway because he was the one who had prescribed it in the first place. And besides, it’s medicine, isn’t it? He does his chores, completes his homework, performs the tasks assigned him, helps without being asked, and generally makes himself useful when he sees it’s needed.
But he is woefully out of practice with being on his own. He was more self-assured when he was younger and they were living in Africa, but since coming back to Calzonia he has lost his edge. He is no longer confident he knows enough to be self-sufficient. He has experienced a lot during his teen years—traveling constantly, living in Africa, being exposed to different cultures and peoples. But since his mother’s death and his diagnosis, his father has been very protective of him. In L.A., he is not allowed to venture anywhere without an escort, and then only by private transport. He has seen little of the city beyond the view from his home. He has never been much of anywhere in greater Calzonia besides going twice to the BioGen Corporation offices with his father and to a few museums with Faulkner.
Alone in the descending elevator of the sky tower, trying to decide how to proceed, wondering how much time he has before he is found by the Hazmats, Ash realizes he is poorly prepared for what lies ahead. A swift cataloging of strengths and skills reveals how inadequate he is for the task that faces him.
He has only one advantage: his memory. He sees something once and remembers it. In preparation for a mythical time when he would be allowed out on his own, he has memorized the transit routes crisscrossing the city. He has studied the online manuals to discover how to navigate them. He has traveled them over and over in his imagination. So any lack of actual experience or practical usage should not be a problem; all he needs to do is follow the signs to the transport devices and stations, engage or board whichever one he chooses, and be on his way.
At least, that’s what he tells himself as he leaves the sky tower elevator and heads for the building’s transportation center.
Of course, things don’t always work out the way you plan. Especially when you need them to. Which explains why both transmat chambers are shut down with warnings taped to their windows that read in big red letters: OUT OF ORDER.
He looks around for signs that might direct him elsewhere but doesn’t see any. His fears surface anew, but he beats them back. Being afraid won’t help. He asks a few people here and there for the location of a more complete transportation center, but they shrug or shake their heads, barely slowing to acknowledge him. Everyone seems to be in a hurry, anxious to get where they’re going; no one seems to have any interest in trying to help.
Finally, he goes back out to the lobby and finds a bot doorman working the tower entrance and asks him. The bot says to go two blocks farther on to the Elysian Residences. A transmat in working order can be found there. The catch is, Ash will have to go outside to reach it. He cannot use the tunnels. To enter the Elysian through the tunnels, he is told, he will need to be in possession of a security card.
Ash doesn’t want to waste any more time. So he takes a deep breath and goes out into the poisonous L.A. air. Immediately he
encounters people wearing protective masks. Some are fed from portable oxygen cylinders, and some consist of nothing more than a cloth filter fitted over the mouth and nose. Ash glances at the windows of the buildings as he passes and sees himself looking back—a little ragged and windblown, a bit worse for wear, blondish hair sticking out all over the place. An average sort of kid with little to mark him as distinctive. In his opinion, anyway. Ashton Arthur Collins. He doesn’t mind most of what he is looking at, which admittedly is not all that much. There isn’t anything special about him. Has a nice smile, he thinks. He’s neither big nor strong. He works out and lifts weights and studies tae kwon do, so he is reasonably buff. Well, sort of. He’s maybe a little bit buff. But he doesn’t care about such stuff. He has never participated in organized sports. Not in Africa, because there weren’t any, and not in Calzonia since his return, because you don’t get to do that when you are homeschooled in a sky tower.
He enters the building to which he has been directed, still safely in one piece, still free of any apparent effects from the poisonous air. Miracle of miracles. Crossing the lobby to the green booth that houses the transmat, he stands looking at the controls. They are completely unfamiliar. They look nothing like the controls he studied in the manuals. Apparently, while he was busy memorizing old transmat systems, new ones were installed. Is it possible he could figure out how these replacements work? Thing is, when you’re transporting yourself from one place to another in a screed of particles, you don’t want to make a mistake. You would think something like operating a transmat would be more intuitive. But few people use the machines; they are too expensive, and the rumored danger if something goes wrong is off-putting.
Ash leaves the booth and the building and goes back outside. The transmat idea isn’t working. Maybe taking a robo-taxi is best after all. At least the taxis are reliable in terms of getting you where you want to go. His parents refused to take them, however, and he understands why. He rode in one with Faulkner over to the Calzonia Museum of Natural History when he was somewhere around twelve
and public transport was still permitted. It was a ride he has still not forgotten. Kind of fun then, but with age comes wisdom. Nevertheless, it is probably the best he can do.
A thought occurs. Perhaps he doesn’t need to taxi all the way to the Red Zone, which is a considerable distance. He calls up his memories of the substem system. If he takes a robo-taxi to substem #23, he can catch a train directly into the center of the Zone. Even on brief reflection, this seems an infinitely better choice.
He walks to a hotel several doors down and asks the doorman to call him a taxi. He does not use his vidview because he believes messages can be sourced and tracked. Taking a seat in the airfiltered hotel lobby, he waits. People going in and out of the hotel ignore him. Passersby barely give him a glance. He is invisible, which is fine with him.
Within a few minutes, the summoned robo-taxi descends from the allotted airspace to which all public transportation is assigned and settles into the loading zone in front of the hotel. Ash rushes over, climbs into the back seat, buckles up, and mentally prepares himself for what he knows is coming.
Please fasten your restraining straps, the bot driver advises.
“Already done,” Ash mutters, his uneasiness skyrocketing as memories of his last ride in a robo-taxi recall themselves in brilliant detail. He tests the straps, lengths of padded mesh that crisscross his body and wrap his waist, pinning him to the seat.
Destination, please.
“Substem #23.”
Substem #23 recorded and entered. Thank you for your cooperation.
The robo-taxi rises slowly into public transportation airspace and then shoots off like a rocket. No warning, no hesitation, it just catapults out of there, accelerating into a maze of traffic where it proceeds to weave through the vehicles like a scalded cat. Objectively, Ash knows the taxi is equipped with all sorts of protective equipment, including sensors linked to automatic thrusters and brakes to prevent collisions. But such preventatives have been known to fail, and trusting in fate and the odds with this
form of transportation feels decidedly like gambling. Regulation is a good thing, but it can only do so much.
He endures the seemingly endless ride to substem #23 with clenched teeth, tensed muscles, and the uncomfortable realization that he has surrendered any personal control over his fate. The taxi lurches and jumps, twists and turns, and generally travels at impossible speeds through the obstacle course that comprises the airspace thirty feet above the much calmer city streets and walkways of L.A.
When the robo-taxi finally disengages from the traffic flow and casually lowers to the curb in front of substem #23, Ash is already vowing never to ride in one of these insane machines again, no matter what the extent of his desperation.
Substem #23, the bot driver announces needlessly. Please deposit twenty-five credits.
Ash does so, unable to voice what he is thinking, even to a bot. Accordingly, the harness locks release, the door opens, and he is set free.
Thank you for your patronage.
Right, Ash thinks. The last patronage you maniacs will ever get from me!
He gets out of the robo-taxi and hurries toward the station entrance. No more robo-taxis, he tells himself one final time. No way.
Inside, he slows to look around, keenly aware that he can’t assume any place he goes will be safe. It seems unlikely the Hazmats could have tracked him here, but he cannot be sure what resources they have at their disposal. If they are desperate enough to blow open the door to his home and turn harmless robot servants to junk metal, they are probably capable of anything.
He walks the length of the cavernous lobby, passing beneath the scrolling lights of the scheduling signs, navigating clusters of ticket scanners and rows of waiting benches, trying his best to be inconspicuous. The latter is a problem. He is wearing a high-end, single-piece sheath, a much sought-after item of clothing that is incredibly comfortable but so unusual that it stands out in a public
transportation station like a neon sign. At least it is a nondescript gray and doesn’t draw the attention a brighter color would. But even so, it is entirely too noticeable.
Which immediately becomes a problem when he sees his face staring back at him from the giant News Reader overhead.
Ash stops and reads the caption beneath.
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS FACE?
IF SIGHTED, PLEASE CONTACT L.A. PREVENTATIVES IMMEDIATELY.
That was fast. He has barely escaped the Hazmats, and already they have him posted on News Readers. Except that Hazmats don’t have the authority to put you up on a national reader board. That has to come from much higher up.
Ash watches the words crawl across the giant screen beneath his picture, a very public indictment. There is no reason given for why he is being sought. Why has he suddenly become so important?
He hurries to the closest washroom, brushing past people with his head down and his backpack held open in front of him as if he is looking for something. Once inside, he locks himself in a cubicle and sits down heavily on the sani-seat.
What am Igoing to do? Panic tightens his chest like a vise. I am in so muchtrouble, andIdon’t even know the reason!
After a few horrific moments he collects himself sufficiently to realize something odd. The authorities do not seem to be looking for his father. It isn’t Brantlin Collins’s picture up there on the reader board; it’s his. Which means he is the priority for them. Which means . . . what? That his father is already in custody? That something worse has happened to him, something that makes finding him unnecessary?
Now Ash is really afraid. He squeezes his eyes shut against a wave of nausea. He is barely seventeen years old and the police are hunting him like a criminal and his father has disappeared and he has no place to go and whatever he does . . .
He stops himself just short of losing control. What is the time? He starts to engage his vidview to find out and then stops. He keeps forgetting. They can track you that way if they
are keyed into your signal. He takes a moment to remember the time on the clock in the lobby of the substem station. Almost midday. He needs to take his ProLx. Purpose provides him with a way of calming down. He rummages through his backpack until he finds the container, shakes out a pill, and swallows it dry.
The pills are his lifeblood. He has a rare immune deficiency that requires he take ProLx once a day, every day, without exception. He was diagnosed a little over two years ago. Taking his medication is all that prevents a complete collapse of his autoimmune system. His father, who gave him the news after reading the results from a routine physical, has been very specific about this. No matter where Ash is or what he is doing, he has to take his daily dosage. No exceptions, no excuses. Not if he wants to stay alive.
He repeats the words silently. Not ifIwant to stay alive.
He stays where he is, sitting on the sani-seat in the toilet stall, until he calms down again. He needs to move. His father might still be waiting for him, no matter what the absence of his face on the reader board suggests. He has to stop assuming things; he has to stick to the plan.
He considers what he should do next. It would help if he could assume a different, less obvious look. But when he opens his backpack, he finds nothing but sheaths, all packed two years ago, all now too small for his larger frame.
He closes the backpack in disgust. Sufficiently recovered from his panic attack, he stands up and leaves the stall. He walks over to one of the sinks, triggers a flow of reasonable-looking water, and splashes some of it on his face before leaning into an automatic airdry. He starts for the door and is almost on his way out when he spies the recycler. He glances around. No one else is there. Impulsively, he rummages through the recycler, chooses a discarded shirt, and tries it on. Ripped in one shoulder and way too big. But with the shirt covering it, his sheath doesn’t stand out quite so much.
He wishes he could do something about his face too, but that isn’t going to happen. He further messes up his already-tousled hair to
change it completely from how it looks on the reader board. Then, with his pack slung over one shoulder, he goes back out into the main lobby and sits down next to an elderly couple and a teen girl with lots of face metal. His picture is still staring out at him from the overhead screen, and the admonition to the public about reporting him if spotted is still scrolling across underneath. It disappears long enough to allow a short report of continued unrest in the Dixie Confederacy, where the separatist movement continues to gain followers and demonstrations and general unrest suggests things are building to a crisis point. Then his picture reappears, almost as if the problems of the Deep South are his fault.
He turns up the collar of the overshirt and studies the digital readout on the scheduling board.
There is a train leaving for the Red Zone in ten minutes.
This is his chance. He has to catch it. If he doesn’t, it could be an hour before another comes through. If he waits, he is risking everything. Sooner or later someone is going to recognize him. They might not decide to alert the authorities involvement in what doesn’t concern you has never been a priority for the average L.A. citizen—but there is nothing to say they won’t either. He can’t afford to leave this to chance.
His determination is reinforced when he sees a flood of black-clad police enter the cavernous lobby and slowly begin to fan out.
His blood goes cold and his fear returns.
These aren’t freelancers or Hazmats or even L.A. Preventatives. Not in those outfits. Each bears a silver patch with a wolf’s head, an insignia resurrected out of another age and country long since gone but still vividly remembered.
Ash takes a deep, steadying breath, gets to his feet, and moves away quickly.
The black-clads are members of Achilles Pod.
Everyone who lives anywhere in Calzonia, largest of the semiautonomous regions carved out of what used to be called the United States of America but is now known as the United Territories, knows about Achilles Pod.
Mostly, they know that whatever else happens in your life, you want to do everything possible to avoid coming into contact with it. It works like this. The Global Reach Government oversees and manages the entire civilized world: all seven continents and within those boundaries all territories, provinces, colonies, regions, and the like, including the U.T. ORACLE is the G.R.G.’s law enforcement and investigative arm. It consists of thousands of active divisions established throughout the world’s population centers—each with its own particular central command and tactical units (and in the cases of the larger territories, its armies). ORACLE is the primary police force for the entire region.
In Calzonia, and most particularly in L.A., the most feared tactical unit serving under ORACLE is Achilles Pod.
The stories about the Calzonia arm of Achilles Pod are legion, and all of them are pretty much the same. A situation arises, one in which lives are at stake and ordinary police are swiftly determined to be inadequate. A call goes out, an order is given, and members of Achilles Pod are dispatched. In short order the dangerous situation is diffused, hostages and innocents are rescued, and those in the wrong come to a bad end.
Those who serve in Achilles Pod are not governed by ordinary rules of propriety and fair play. They are not particularly concerned about human rights or bloodless resolutions. Their mandate has always been the same put an end to the problem with minimal
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suddenly awoke to the exigencies of the situation, and quietly trotted out of harm’s way.
As we proceeded, smooth patches of black lava showed themselves above the surface of the sand, and quartzose rocks occurred here and there. Half a mile further on rose a plateau about 25 feet high, apparently composed of some black substance. It lay right in our path, and we pushed forward towards it in order to more closely examine it. When we arrived at the foot, we found, to our dismay, that it was composed of blocks of black vesicular lava, varying in size from a football to an ordinary trunk. It stretched in either direction, left and right, as far as the eye could see, and there was no alternative but to attempt to cross over the top, which we were very loth to do, although we consoled ourselves with the thought that it would only be for a few hundred yards. We therefore scrambled to the summit, and only then got a faint idea of what was before us.
The whole country round was covered with loose blocks of lava to a depth of 30 to 50 feet. The surface was not even fairly level, but was irregularly disposed in heaps, forming little hills and valleys of loose and often insecurely poised stones. There was a great and ever-present risk of a careless movement bringing two or three tons of stuff rolling down, and obliterating the unfortunate individual who had disturbed the status quo. The hard slag-like blocks were perforated by innumerable holes caused by air-bubbles when the lava was fluid, giving them the structure and appearance of a dark brown, or black, petrified sponge, the ragged edges of which soon reduced our boots to ribbons. The men who were wearing sandals suffered severely, as did the animals. It was, of course, impossible to ride, the mules having painfully hard work even to get along alone.
Imagine a tiny ant endeavouring to clamber across a newly laid, unrolled cinder-track, and you will have our position precisely. There was, however, no help for it; the cinder-heap, as we dubbed it, had to be crossed. We advanced slowly and painfully for over two hours, but, to our inexpressible disappointment, saw no signs of nearing the other side. The heat of the sun was terrific. Its rays, beating vertically down, were readily absorbed by the lava, seemingly almost causing
it to glow in the intense heat, which, radiating afresh from under our feet, gave us the feeling of being slowly baked in an immense oven.
At the end of the second hour we halted for a space, dead beat. Sitting still in the sun we found was much worse than walking, so we resumed our painful march, climbing slowly and wearily over the interminable lava-heaps, following a faint track made by wandering rhinoceros. Here and there a few stunted thorn bushes made a pitiful struggle for existence, though how they managed to live we could not imagine, seeing that the closest scrutiny failed to show any traces of soil, their roots seemingly going straight down between the blocks of lava. As we walked, El Hakim suddenly jogged me in the ribs with his elbow, thus calling my attention to a couple of giraffe which were standing about fifty yards ahead watching us. Strange to say, they did not exhibit the least alarm, but watched us till we had approached to within twenty yards, when they turned and shambled off, with their ungainly heads swaying to and fro like the masthead of a ship in a seaway.
A few minutes later we walked round a corner right on to a rhinoceros. He faced round, and we instantly scattered. I made for the lee side of a convenient lava-heap, and loaded my ·303; El Hakim and George following suit. The slight noise we made in doing so scared the brute, for he suddenly turned and trotted away over the loose lava as if it were a lawn, and, notwithstanding his bulk, without a sound.
We toiled onwards for another couple of hours, when our hearts were gladdened by an appearance of smoothness underfoot. It was only temporary, however, and soon we were again continuing our unequal struggle with nature. Slowly and mechanically we toiled along, El Hakim, George and I, and our personal servants; the rest of the safari had long since tailed off, and were scattered in twos and threes along the path in our rear.
The sun rose higher and higher as the morning advanced, and scorched us till it seemed as if we had not a single drop of moisture left in our bruised and wearied bodies. I feebly wondered if we were doomed to be a sort of modern edition of the “Wandering Jew,” with
Dante’s “Inferno” as the sphere of operations. When I suggested the idea to my companions in a vain attempt at a joke, it did not provoke even a smile. Our boots were ruined, and our feet sore and cramped from springing from one piece of loose rock to another. The lava rolled and slipped from under us, bruising our ankles; we were parched with thirst, hot, dog-tired, and altogether in a most miserable plight.
Suddenly George gave vent to a feeble hurrah! El Hakim and I gazed wonderingly at him, trying to grasp the reason for such a singular demonstration. He indicated by a gesture that we should look ahead. We did so, and immediately endeavoured, as well as our parched and swollen tongues would permit, to follow his example, though the attempt was more or less a failure. There before us was a sharp dip; at the foot stretched one of the familiar, gravelly, sandy plains covered with thorn trees. We had grumbled enough at them heretofore, but after that terrific “cinder-heap” the thorn-covered plain seemed a veritable paradise.
As if to make amends for our sufferings, we at that moment caught sight of Mount Sheba, which was our objective on leaving camp that morning. It was, alas! still some miles distant, but it meant water.
Away we went at a quick walk, animated by only one desire—the desire for water. There were no signs of our safari, but we knew that they could easily follow our tracks, so we hurried on. Hour after hour we pushed on, now walking and anon half running, in our eagerness to reach the river. We met several rhinoceros, but such was our hurry we did not stop to speak. Suddenly a group of the thriceblessed Doum palms appeared at the bottom of a valley. We raced down the slope, and there at the bottom lay a pool of beautiful, cool, clear, sparkling water. Ye gods! what pen can hope to adequately describe the supreme delight of a long, long draught of cool, pure water, after hours of such a sun as we had been exposed to on the “cinder-heap?” We lay down on our stomachs, and, plunging our faces beneath the surface, drank our fill of the life-preserving fluid. When we were satisfied, we laved our chests, and, playing with the water, watched the sparkling crystal drops drip from our fingers and fall with a musical splash into the parent pool. It was not such a long
time, after all, that we had been without water, but the sun was terribly fierce on the heaps of lava, and, in addition, the horrible uncertainty as to whether we were not going further and further away from water, increased our thirst to quite an abnormal degree.
Afterwards we despatched the two or three men who had accompanied us on the backward track, to communicate the joyful news to the rest of the safari, and to relieve of their burdens those on whom the long and arduous march had had most effect. In the course of an hour or so some of the men began to arrive in twos and threes. The others, we found, were not far behind, so we went on, and in another half-hour reached the river.
Whether it was the contrast to what we had just undergone or not, the river appeared to us to be as near an approach to Paradise as it is possible to get in this world. The swift water rushing past, here over rocks in miniature cataracts, and there over smooth gravel beds, gave forth a musical murmur in the highest degree conducive to slumber. As our tents, eatables, and, indeed, all our personal equipment were somewhere behind, halfway between the river and the “cinder-heap,” we slumbered accordingly under the grateful shade of the palms.
A curious fact which I have often noticed on a long and fatiguing march is that, as in this instance, when the first of one’s men get into camp, they are invariably the men who are carrying the loads of trade goods, the cloth, or, unkindest cut of all, the cooking utensils!
Towards evening the rest of the safari staggered in, some of the men having been twelve hours on the road. One man had fallen from exhaustion and died on that awful “cinder-heap,” his load having been brought on by Jumbi. We had made, I suppose, about six miles in a bee line from our last camp, though how much ground we had actually covered in our laborious march it is difficult to say.
At the conclusion of our breakfast-dinner-supper we turned in, thoroughly tired out; but, as it happened, we were destined not to enjoy a quiet night’s repose. First Ramathani came into the tent; he held an egg in his hand—a guinea-fowl’s egg.
“The men found this, Bwana,” said he.
Now, I fancied an egg very much, so I awakened George. “I’ll go halves with you,” said I, when I had induced sufficient wakefulness in him to understand what I was saying.
Ramathani was accordingly ordered to boil the egg. I lent him my watch, so that he should boil it for exactly three minutes, neither more nor less. Meanwhile I secured two spoons and the pepper-box, and we waited expectantly till Ramathani reappeared bearing the precious egg cooked to a turn. I took it and rapped it with my spoon. Hardly had I touched it before it exploded with a loud report, and flew to pieces. It was empty inside, at least it appeared empty; a second after it blew up George looked blankly at me, and I returned the compliment, and we were still gazing at each other when the aftereffect, so to speak, struck us. Then, choking, we made a dive for the open air. Hastily summoning Ramathani, we bade him penetrate to the interior of the tent, open both ends, and then wave a blanket till the sewer gas, or whatever it was, had dispersed, a proceeding which occupied some time. We then turned in again, and slept peacefully, though odorously, till somewhere about midnight.
Suddenly a cry of “Moto! moto!” (Fire! fire!) rang out, accompanied by a terrible roaring and crackling. Out we rushed, clad only in our shirts—the night was warm—to find one portion of the camp in a blaze. We seized blankets, sacking, anything we could get hold of, and furiously attacked the flames.
The dry grass and reeds burned like paper, but the great danger lay in the palm trees. If once they caught fire, our tents, stores, and, in fact, everything, would be utterly destroyed. We fought, therefore, for our very existence. Fortunately we managed, by the most strenuous exertions, to keep the flames clear of the palms, and, after an hour’s hard work, to entirely subdue them. Our bare feet and legs were slightly burnt, and my shirt was scorched, but beyond that no serious damage was done. We turned in again at 2 a.m., and slept undisturbed till 7 a.m., when we once more resumed our march.
We intended to go only a short distance, in order to give the men a rest after their fatiguing exertions of the previous day. The country
was by no means level, and here and there showed a tendency to produce more lava-blocks, but we met with nothing that seriously impeded our progress. We saw a herd of zebra in the distance, but they were very shy and wary. Our men, with that reckless improvidence which distinguishes the Swahili “pagazi” (porter), had already consumed the twelve days’ store of grain and flour which we had brought from M’thara, and had now (six days after leaving that place) only a few pieces of buffalo-meat left. It was imperative, therefore, that we should shoot some meat for them.
Smooth patches of sand, interspersed with bare rock, now became the predominant features of the landscape, and game was very hard to approach in consequence.
The river, which we sedulously followed, was distinguished by the line of palms which fringed the banks. It flowed in places at the foot of frowning cliffs of gneiss, their rugged scarps inhabited by countless monkeys and baboons which chattered incessantly, skipping from ledge to ledge, apparently the only animated creatures in the whole sun-baked, dun-coloured landscape. I successfully stalked and shot a grantei, which, in my opinion, is the very best eating of all East African gazelles. Saddle of grantei, after being hung two or three days, is a joint fit for a monarch. We were very anxious to shoot a rhinoceros for the men, which was probably the reason why we saw none, notwithstanding that they had been so indecently numerous during the previous few days.
We camped at ten o’clock in the forenoon on the bank of the river, which here flows over gigantic boulders of gneiss, and sometimes white sandstone or granite. In the afternoon we saw large herds of game a mile or so from camp, principally oryx, zebra, and grantei. They were strangely shy, and, the country being perfectly open, I found it impossible to get nearer than 800 yards to them.
The following day we were off again soon after sunrise. El Hakim shot a small grantei soon after starting. We also saw a herd of buffalo, but could not get within range, as they took alarm, plunged into the river, and, swimming across, retired to the safety of the country on the other side. We also saw some giraffe on the opposite
bank, but this portion of the river was unfordable. El Hakim went out in the afternoon to try to shoot meat for the men, but could not get within range of two rhinoceros, the only animals he saw. Food for the men was getting rather a pressing question, and when we resumed the march on the following morning, George and I took a different path from that of the safari, but parallel to it, in the hope that we might see game.
During the whole march we never saw a single head, and we arrived at the place where the safari had halted, thoroughly tired and disgusted. As we got in, El Hakim had just sighted a rhinoceros, and, seizing his rifle, he mounted the mule and gave chase. The rhinoceros, however, retreated, followed at full speed by El Hakim, while George and I had an opportunity of enjoying the unique sight of a mounted rhinoceros hunt. When it came to speed, however, the rhino was an easy first, and El Hakim returned, hot, weary, and, worse still, unsuccessful.
CHAPTER X.
RETURN TO THE “GREEN CAMP.”
The “Swamp Camp” Beautiful climate of the Waso Nyiro Failure to obtain salt at N’gomba Beset by midges No signs of the Rendili Nor of the Wandorobbo We decide to retrace our steps
An object-lesson in rhinoceros-shooting The Green Camp once more
On account of the animals, El Hakim had directed that the camp should be pitched on a tongue of grass-land adjoining a large swamp. This swamp extended over an area of quite two square miles, probably more. The water, being impregnated with mineral salts, was so brackish that it was absolutely undrinkable. A hundred yards from our camping-place the Waso Nyiro foamed and tumbled past at the bottom of a deep gorge, which, in the course of countless centuries, it had cut through the solid rock (gneiss). The sides of the gorge were perfectly perpendicular. Two or three little streams, emanating from the swamp, drained over the summit, falling in clouds of spray upon the rocks a hundred feet below There were several wild date palms (Phœnix sp.)—the only specimens I saw in the whole of North Kenia—growing at the side of the cliff; they were bearing fruit, which, however, was quite green and very small. The Swahilis name this palm “m’tende,” and the fruit “tende.” We found the side of the gorge extremely precipitous, and had to go up-stream for quite a quarter of a mile for a suitable place to descend.
The weather was glorious. It was so dry that the intense heat of the day passed almost unnoticed. The evenings I shall never forget; they were simply idyllic. As the sun set, a cool breeze sprang up; cool, yet not cold. After our frugal supper, we usually donned our pyjamas, lit cigars, and sat out in the open air, now carrying on a desultory conversation, and anon sitting silent, wrapt in contemplation of the manifold beauties of the tropical night. The atmosphere was so dry that no dew fell, and it was perfectly safe in
that beautiful climate to sit out in the open air when only partially clothed. The clearness and purity of the deep blue-black of the heavens, studded with its myriads of brilliant stars, was such as I have seen only in Egypt and the Southern Seas. At such times the only sound which broke the stillness was the far-off musical roar of the Waso Nyiro, as, hurrying to its unknown destination, it tumbled over its rocky bed; or the murmur of subdued conversation from where the men sat round their fires, resting after the toil and labour of the day. As the evening advanced the animals lay down one by one, an example soon followed by the men. Presently, our cigars finished, we also would reluctantly retire, not at once to sleep, however, but instead, opening both ends of the tents to the fullest extent, to lie down and gaze out into the calm and silent majesty of the night, drinking in the beauty of the scene with its atmosphere of restfulness and peace, and requiring, for the moment, nothing further from the Author of all things.
In the morning the order of things changed somewhat. As the first signs of dawn appeared in the eastern heavens, Jumbi aroused the sleeping porters with his cry of “Haya! haya! safari! safari!” Ramathani next arose, and, blowing into a blaze the embers of yesterday’s fire, proceeded to boil the kettle for our matutinal coffee —that is, when we possessed any. A rattle of buckets outside our tent, as the boys poured fresh water into our wash-basins, roused us, and we waited with half-closed eyes for the appearance of the boy Bilali with our freshly greased boots.
Juma waited on El Hakim, and sometimes he was a little slack in the performance of his duties. George and I, quietly dressing, would hear something like this from El Hakim’s tent—
El Hakim (in a muffled voice): “Juma!”
No answer.
El Hakim (in raised accents): “Juma-a!”
Still no answer.
El Hakim (in a very loud voice): “Juma-a-a!” (Sotto voce): “Where the devil is that boy? Oh! here you are. Wapi viatu?” (Where are my
boots?)
An interval of silence.
El Hakim (evidently getting angry, and alternating English with the vernacular): “Ju-ma-a! Have you got those boots yet? Eh? Wapi viatu? Eh? Wewi sedui? (You don’t know?) What the dickens do you know? Tafuta sana, maramoja!” (Search well at once!)
(A moment’s silence, broken by sounds of searching among kitboxes, etc., followed by an indistinct murmur from the unhappy Juma.)
El Hakim: “You can’t find them, eh? Now, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do with you! I’m going to give you a hiding! Wewi sikia? (Do you hear?) Wha—at! They’re under my bed, where I put them last night! Hum—m—m! Nenda Kuleta maaji! Oopace! (Go and get some water, quickly!) If you don’t do better than this in future you shall carry a load!”
After we had washed and dressed, the tent-bearers, who were already waiting, pulled up the pegs, and in a trice the tents were lying flat on the ground, leaving the blankets and kit exposed, waiting to be packed up ready for the march by Ramathani’s deft fingers. Donkeys trotted skittishly round, colliding with everything and everybody, waywardly declining to be saddled and loaded by the perspiring Jumbi and his assistant, and skilfully evading all attempts at capture. The command, “Funga mzigo yako!” (Tie up your loads) having been given, the men selected their loads from the pile in which they had been stacked overnight, and proceeded to bind their effects to them with lengths of rope of native manufacture, either of skin or fibre. El Hakim, George, and I having finished our tea or coffee, and seen that the tents and kits had been properly packed and ready for the march, prepared in our turn. Ammunition was slipped into side pockets, water-bottles filled, and weapons examined. When Jumbi reported that the donkeys were ready, I raised my voice, “Watu wote tayire?” (Are all the men ready?) “N’deo! tayire, Bwana” (Yes, all ready, master!) would be shouted in reply. A last look round to see if anything had been forgotten or overlooked, a critical examination of the donkeys’ pack-saddles, or a
dispute between two porters summarily disposed of by the judicious application of a boot, and “Chikua mzigo yako!” (Take up your loads) would ring out. Immediately after Jumbi, shouting “Haya! haya! safari twende!” (Hurry up! hurry up! go on your journey!) would “chunga” his donkeys, and El Hakim, mounting his mule, would set out, followed by the porters, George and I staying behind to see the last man out of camp, and safely on the road; thus another day’s march commenced.
We made up our minds to stop a day or two at this “Swamp Camp,” as we called it, in order to give the animals a much-needed rest; there were also sundry small matters which required attention, and which could not be done very well on the march.
An hour or two after the camp was pitched we despatched Jumbi, accompanied by three other men, to Mount N’gombe to look for salt. Mount N’gombe was placed on my map as due north of Mount Sheba, which we had passed two days before. It is really some thirty or forty miles to the east of Sheba, as it (N’gombe) lies some thirty miles south-south-east of our “Swamp Camp,” which was itself some twenty miles due east of Sheba. It was also marked on the map as a salt crater, and in it lay our only hope of obtaining salt during the next four months, the small supply I obtained from Ismail Robli, in M’thara, being already finished.
In the afternoon George and I went down to the river and indulged in a most delightful swim, in spite of the supposed presence of crocodiles. Towards evening the mosquitos troubled us somewhat, and prevented us sleeping at all well.
VIEW ON THE WASO NYIRO, NEAR “SWAMP CAMP.”
CUTTING UP A RHINOCEROS FOR FOOD. (See page 190.)
We were up very early on the following morning, but it was not our own fault. At sunrise we were assailed by myriads of midges; they were very, very small, but they possessed a most venomous sting, the mosquitos being, in fact, quite harmless by comparison. They settled down in clouds on man and beast, and drove us all nearly frantic. Our faces, necks, and arms were soon covered with innumerable bites, which itched with a malevolence beyond anything I had hitherto experienced. George and I seized our rifles and fled from them as from a pestilence. We were out all the morning looking for game, and never once caught sight of a single animal. The men were badly in want of food, and we ourselves were in great need of raw hide wherewith to repair our boots. George and I had each attempted to buy an extra pair before leaving Nairobi, but there were no boots our size in the town at the time. We had been walking with our feet showing through those we were wearing, which were almost
dropping to pieces. The country was so rough and stony underfoot that a long march was an event to be painfully remembered.
Jumbi and his companions returned in the evening from M’gomba, having discovered no traces of salt! They brought us samples of carbonate of soda, which, they said, was the only kind of salt there, but there was plenty of that. They had seen no natives, which was both surprising and disappointing, as there are generally a few Wandorobbo wandering up and down the Waso Nyiro. We were the more anxious to meet some of these people, as they generally have news of the Rendili.
The Wandorobbo are a nomad tribe of native hunters, who wander round the country at their own sweet will in search of wild honey and elephants. One or two Wandorobbo are to be found living in or near all the permanent settlements of both the Masai and the A’kikuyu. They live entirely by hunting; cultivating nothing. They are very skilful hunters of the elephant, which they kill with a poisoned spear. This spear consists of a heavy shaft about five feet long with a socket in the top, into which the poisoned barb is loosely fitted. Stealthily approaching his unconscious quarry, the naked hunter, with poised spear, watches his opportunity. At the right moment a quick movement of the arm launches the heavy spear, and the keen barb penetrates the elephant’s vitals. The hunter instantly dives into the bush; sometimes he is caught and killed. Accidents will happen, but I do not know that such an occurrence spoils the appetites of his companions. The elephant on receiving the thrust generally rushes away through the bush, and the spear-shaft, falling off, leaves the poisoned head in the wound to do its deadly work. They spear hippopotamus in the same way, but leave the rhinoceros severely alone unless they happen to catch him asleep. The origin of the Wandorobbo is still somewhat of a mystery. It is generally supposed that they are the offspring of degenerate Masai, with admixtures of other tribes. To a certain extent this is the case, but there are pureblooded Wandorobbo who, in the opinion of Professor Gregory as recorded in his book,[8] are of very different descent. He says, “I suggest that they should be called the Wa’doko, for they agree in habits, appearance, and position with the tribe thus named by
Harris[9] and Avanchers.[10] The Doko were said to occur on a high, cold, misty plateau in the neighbourhood of dense bamboo forests. Their home is about six weeks’ march from Mombasa, and between a snow-covered mountain called Obada and Lake El Boo or Bari. The mountain must be Kenia, and the lake Baringo. Hence it seems safe to conclude that the Doko or Wa’berikimo of Harris, Avanchers, Krapff,[11] and Rigby[12] are the elephant-hunting Negrillos on the plateau of Lykipia and the district to the north.”
When discussing the Wandorobbo with El Hakim, I learned that the Wandorobbo have a language of their own, though it is only spoken among a few of the tribe on Mogogodo (a hog-backed ridge north-west of the Doenyo lol Deika), where some of the pureblooded Wandorobbo—or Wa’doko—have a permanent settlement. They were very unwilling to let strangers hear it, a fact also mentioned by Prof. Gregory El Hakim had heard scraps of it, and it was unlike anything else he had ever known. He was ignorant of the language of the South African Bushmen, and therefore could not say if there was any resemblance.
As we had now been two days at the “Swamp Camp,” and had seen no natives, and consequently had no news of the Rendili, we thought it unlikely that they were encamped down-stream as we had supposed. We decided, therefore, to retrace our steps to the “Green Camp,” and from thence try up the river in the direction of Lololokwe and Wargasse, and thence onwards to Koma and Seran. Having once been over the ground between our present camp and the “Green Camp,” we were to some extent familiar with the topographical aspect of the intervening country. We calculated, therefore, to be able to make several short cuts, thereby making the return journey in a day or perhaps two days less than we had taken on our journey hither.
The next morning we started very early, being encouraged thereto by our implacable little foes, the midges. They made matters very unpleasant for a while, and we were quite half a mile on our road before finally getting rid of them. Taking a short cut across the mouth of a big curve made by the river hereabouts, we travelled to our
camp of July 31st, missing the one of August 1st, passing on the way the remains of a vast Rendili encampment several years old.
Soon afterwards our men were gladdened by the sight of a rhinoceros accompanied by a m’toto (young one), and El Hakim and George immediately set off in chase of her. Suddenly, to our astonishment, we heard the sound of a shot from the other side of a ridge in front. The chase of the rhinoceros was at once abandoned, and we raced up the slope, expecting we knew not what. Nothing! absolutely nothing! met our eager gaze; the country stretched at our feet was the usual gravelly, stony abomination studded with the thorn trees we were so accustomed to; the course of the river showing in the distance as a darker green line in the brown landscape. Strain our gaze as we might, nothing in the way of a safari met our eyes. It was inexplicable. We could have sworn we heard a shot, and so also could the men; but nevertheless the landscape appeared absolutely deserted. I fired a shot from my own rifle, but, beyond the multitudinous echoes, there was no response. We treated the occurrence as we would any other riddle, and gave it up, and once more proceeded on our way.
Presently another rhinoceros hove in sight, and El Hakim started for him. He had almost got within comfortable range of the brute, which, unconscious of its danger, was busily feeding, when the men, discovering what he was after, raised yells of delight at the prospect of a feed at last, and to El Hakim’s intense annoyance startled his quarry, which made off at a gallop. He returned in a towering passion —“Wewe Kula mejani sassa” (You can eat grass now), said he. “I’m not going to be made a fool of when I am trying to shoot meat for you,” and mounting his mule he resumed his place at the head of the safari.
Towards evening we reached our old camp of July 31st, and on arrival we immediately sent men back to try to discover if there were any signs of another safari in the neighbourhood. One of the men also was missing, together with his rifle and a valuable load of cloth. We thought that he might have sat down to rest and fallen asleep, and let the safari pass on, so we sent Jumbi up the summit of a lofty hill near the camp, with a gamekeeper’s flare which burnt for five
minutes with a brilliant blue light, and would be visible in that clear atmosphere and at that height for several miles. As he did not turn up that night or the next morning in spite of the most diligent search by the parties of men we sent out, we concluded that he had deserted and gone back to M’thara. The other men whom we had sent to look for and report on the possible presence of another safari in the neighbourhood returned, stating that they had seen no signs of a safari whatever. We questioned the men as to whether any of them had fired the shot, but they each and all denied it; besides, the shot had seemed to come from the front. It was a mystery which we never solved.
Next morning I left camp half an hour before the safari, in order to try to shoot some meat before the caravan, with its varied noises, frightened the game away. A mile or so out of camp I saw a solitary oryx (Oryx beisa) feeding in the open. There was no cover, and the need was urgent, so I sank my scruples about shooting at a long range, and crawling to just within two hundred yards I let drive at it with the ·303. My bullet struck it in the ribs, but failed to knock the beast over. A second shot clean through the shoulder did the business, however. I waited till the safari came up with me, and joined them. The flesh of the oryx is tough and tasteless, and when dried the hide is extraordinarily hard, and as stiff as a board.
At the end of a two and a half hours’ march we reached the camp at which we had such a narrow escape from destruction by fire on July 30th. It was now completely burnt out, having evidently caught fire again after our departure. The fire had spread very much, the palms for over two miles along the bank being reduced to a collection of mere blackened poles, in many places still smouldering. Camping was out of the question, so we went on again for another hour and a half. As we were crossing a small sand river which ran across our path, a herd of water-buck dashed out from among the palms forty yards ahead, racing across our front in fine style. It was a chance not to be missed, and raising my ·303 I took a snapshot and brought one down with a bullet through the shoulder. Two or three hundred yards further on I unexpectedly came upon a small herd of grantei, and another lucky shot laid low a fine buck; not at all a bad
morning’s work in a district so devoid of game as that through which we were passing.
Soon after I shot the water-buck we deviated to the right, and, entering the belt of palms, selected a shady spot a few yards from the river and halted for a meal which we called breakfast, though it was past midday. At three o’clock in the afternoon we were again on the road, and remembering the “cinder-heap,” kept close to the riverbank. It was no use, however, as we discovered to our intense disgust that the lava came right down to the river, and there ended abruptly, as there were no traces of it on the opposite bank. Its difficulties, were, however, modified to a great extent by the fact that it was possible at intervals to descend to the water’s edge, and march for sometimes a quarter or even half a mile along the smooth sand.
After more than two hours’ wearisome tramp, we got into the open plains stretching away to the “Green Camp.” It was then growing dusk, and as we had still some miles to go, we hurried forward. Presently a solitary rhinoceros appeared, quietly feeding, about three hundred yards away to our right. El Hakim inquired if I would shoot it, but as I was hot, tired, and perhaps a little short-tempered, I declined, hinting that I was anxious to see him put his precepts on short-range shooting into practice. It was an ungracious speech, and El Hakim would have been quite right to have ignored my remark. As it was, he merely sniffed, but dismounted, and taking his ·577 from Juma pointedly asked George if he would like to accompany him, an offer George accepted with alacrity. El Hakim walked down, followed by George, and, then advanced cautiously to within twenty yards of the unsuspecting rhinoceros. He then raised his rifle, and, pausing a moment to aim, pulled the trigger. A puff of dense white smoke appeared, followed an instant later by a heavy report. The stricken rhinoceros jumped, then galloped madly away, with a bullet through the lungs, falling dead before it had gone fifty yards.
It was a pretty exhibition, and it looked so absurdly simple that when, on the report of El Hakim’s rifle, a second rhinoceros jumped up from the grass between us, where it had been lying unobserved, I snatched the Martini from Ramathani, and slipping a cartridge into
the breech, ran up to within sixty yards of it, and kneeling down banged off at its shoulder. I admit that sixty yards was a long and unsportsmanlike range, but I was anxious to bag the beast before El Hakim, who was approaching it on his return from the dead rhinoceros, in a direction at right angles to my line of fire, could get within range. Of course my rhino, when hit, behaved quite differently to El Hakim’s. It galloped madly, it is true, but in my direction. It came straight for me, its head lowered and tail up, and I slipped another cartridge into my rifle, fully expecting to see fireworks within a very few seconds. Nearer and nearer it came, but just as I braced myself up for the shot that should decide my fate, my antagonist swerved aside and commenced what Neumann calls the rhino’s death-waltz, which consists of backing round and round with its head in the air, until it succumbs. In another moment he was down, and as I surveyed my prostrate quarry I mentally patted myself on the back for what I considered a good performance.
My self-congratulations, however, were rudely dispelled by El Hakim, who had come silently behind me, remarking in his quiet voice, “H’m-m, just the sort of thing you would do,” thereby covering me with confusion; I ventured to remonstrate, and he then asked me where I had hit the beast. I showed him: the bullet had missed the shoulder and struck the neck, severing the main artery and the windpipe—cutting the beast’s throat, in fact. “Does not that emphasize what I have told you?” he inquired. “If you had gone close enough to be certain of placing your bullet in the shoulder, you would not have run the risk you did. As it is, it is a very lucky thing for you that your bullet struck the artery; so you see you owe your freedom from accident more to good luck than good shooting.”
I admitted the justice of the rebuke, and determined to manage things better next time.
On the next occasion I tackled a rhinoceros I endeavoured to put into practice the lesson I had learnt, though it could hardly be considered a happy attempt. This time the fault lay in carelessness due to over-confidence. It was in this way. We were going across a piece of open country in the near neighbourhood of the Waso Nyiro, when we saw a rhinoceros just within a fringe of stunted thorn bush,
some four hundred yards to the right. El Hakim looked at me inquiringly. I nodded, and, taking the Martini, placed a couple of cartridges in the pocket of my shirt and set out, never doubting but that one cartridge would be sufficient. By careful stalking I got to within fifteen yards of the rhino, and aiming at the shoulder pulled the trigger. To my horror I saw the blood appear on his withers, the bullet striking too high up, just wounding sufficiently to annoy, but not disable him. The rhino at first stood still, and then slowly walked away. I was unwilling to risk my last cartridge on a doubtful shot, so I remained passive. Presently he stopped again a few yards further on, and loading up again I made a move to try to get nearer. In so doing I unavoidably made a slight noise on the loose stones underfoot, which was apparently what the rhino was waiting for, as he came round like a flash and charged me. I went hot and cold by turns as I remembered how much depended on my solitary cartridge, and as further disguise was useless, I dashed to leeward of a small heap of stones two or three feet high, which lay a yard or two away on my right. Round came the rhinoceros after me, and I dodged to the other side, and, a favourable opportunity presenting itself, I put my bullet fairly into his spine, dropping him dead not three yards from me. I breathed a great sigh of relief, and walking back to El Hakim and George, who had been watching the performance, assumed an air of great nonchalance, and casually asked El Hakim for a cigar. That gentleman gazed steadily at me for a moment, but said never a word, and we resumed our interrupted march in silence.
Having now bagged two rhinoceros, we determined to push on to the “Green Camp,” though darkness had already fallen and the bulk of the safari were still some distance behind. Leaving the mules in charge of Ramathani, El Hakim, George, and I pushed forward on foot. We marched on and on, but no sign of the camp we were looking for appeared, and we were inclined to think that we had mistaken our way in the darkness. At seven o’clock in the evening, however, we reached it. It seemed almost like coming home. I had been on my feet since half-past five in the morning, and was thoroughly done up. El Hakim and George were not much better, as riding a mule at a walk becomes very tiring after some hours in the saddle. We three gathered some dry wood and lit a large fire to
